Tempus Fugit, Godspeed
by Clorinda
Summary: Someone far away thinks of Face as he reads her letter. ON HIATUS.
1. Prelude

**Tempus Fugit, Godspeed**

**By** Clorinda

**Rated**: PG

**Category**: General

**Summary**: Someone far away thinks of Face as he reads her letter. Ficlet.

* * *

He held the letter in his callused hands, reading, re-reading it, his eyes caressing each word, the blue ink shaping her smooth, curvaceous writing. His heart thudded in his chest, so hard it hurt. He couldn't believe it himself, but he was checking, re-checking, his conman's art trying to tell if this was forged.

But it wasn't. That was what was so hard to believe.

He wanted to believe. Just like he hadn't wanted to believe then in the face of farewell.

It had reached him the same way as the Sigma Chi Fraternity pin had. This time, this, it pricked harder than a brooch. It spilt more than blood. It spilt tears.

_Do you know what they say over here when old wounds are not yet healed_, _Templeton_?

_The other day someone had said to me when I was feeling sad and lost_, _sitting by the window_, _waiting for the rain to fall_: "_Tempus fugit_, _Godspeed_." _It is Latin_. Time flies._ I don_'_t remember the last time I wrote to you like this, save for the Dear John letter so many years ago_,_ that you and I have both probably forgotten_. _I want to forget_.

_Now_ _I don_'_t know what to say_._ The words used to have a will of their own when I was with you_, _but now that we are apart by words_, _they don_'_t come to me anymore_.

_I think what I want to say is that I want to ask of you something_.

_Will you_, _this Sunday_, _come to the grounds of the old college_?

_I_'_ll be there, waiting for you_,_ eager to see you again_, _if you should want to come_.

_Leslie_.

He carefully, gently, tenderly almost, folded the letter, slipping it back into the envelope, the same one branded with a neat, blue "_To_, _Temp_." The ink was running slightly where the tear had fallen. The first he'd ever shed.

Of disbelieving joy.

**—- End -—**

**Author's Note**: Do you think a sequel will be apt, or should it stay as a one-shot?


	2. Chapter 1

**Author's Note**: Loads of thanks to **AbCarter**, **Dame**-**Ekna**, **Traser SyberJedi**, **L Zaza**, **Terri** and **ruby** for reviewing. I guess I owe a lot to that episode that comes after "**The Say Uncle Affair**" (sadistic titling, that) for inspiring a continuation.

Also, since the explanations about the callus still sparked off more questions on both ends of cyberspace, especially mine, (thanks for the lovely debate; it was kinda funny) it's not going to make a reappearance, or maybe Face will break his hand or something like that.

* * *

**Chapter One**

_One year previously_.

If there was one thing decent about the house at Langley, Virginia, it was the décor. Stockwell had a cheap taste in furniture, but the horticultural side to him had thankfully not suffered.

Face stood in the patio, his eyes intently raking the drooping bougainvillea suspended over the back door, like a fussy, critical gardener. BA's eyes were raking _him_ like a man in furious sadness.

Murdock wouldn't even glance his way, the fine gold chain of his grandfather's watch wound around his left hand, and Hannibal, well ... Hannibal was doing what Hannibal always did.

Trying to be brave.

He bit his lip, shoving it back inside his throat. It kept getting harder each time; each time the claw tearing at his heart, tore harder to go back and change the past. And Face never knew what to make of that, because he'd never been that kind of guy.

Face. That nickname pulled him here. That name bound him to them, twisted them and their hearts together in a knot that would never let go.

"So." Hannibal didn't have a cigar. It made Face wrench inside to see how the colonel wasn't even aware of that.

"So, this is so long, then."

"Guess it is." His lips broke a smile. He looked around the patio one last time, eyes sweeping over every memory that would not come. "G'bye, Hannibal. Murdock, BA. Never gonna forget you guys, and you know."

His flippancy didn't change a single stony expression.

BA's last handshake crushed his fingers.

Murdock took two steps forward. A third and Face would have been enveloped in his arms, but he didn't move. "Goodbye, Face," he muttered.

Hesitantly, he turned to face Hannibal. He couldn't look his superior in the eye, afraid to see that forced, enthusiastic smile. Saying goodbye to this man, them, always hurt; it hurt in places deeper where blood ran.

"You know, you're always welcome back here anytime, any day, kiddo."

"I know." He swallowed again to get the apple out of his throat. "But I just want to carve things out for me on my own for once. Didn't have much of a chance after college, after the war."

"You know the military will be after you, don't you, Face?"

His heart clenched. Hearing Murdock's voice echo the fear spinning in his resolve, made it seem more real.

"Good luck to you."

"And don't you worry 'bout Stockwell; we'll see ta _that_."

"Thanks, BA. Really."

His shoes sounded on the cemented floor. The sharp taps sounded louder than they should for patented Gucci masterpieces of handicraft. He didn't take the gap in the hedge and the loose board in the fence. He let himself out for the last time through the front door.

The rest of them stood numbly in the patio, the distant sound of a closing door echoing through their heads. They last they'd seen of him was his back, turned away from their faces, as if he was ashamed to see them.

Admit he was one of them, and still a deserter.

* * *

_No more Face Man_, he thought emotionlessly. _That guy was dead_. Templeton Peck closed the gate to the house behind him, and slowly made his way down the road.

* * *

**Author's Note**: I'd promised I'd update, and so I did. But the flip side was, I didn't know what else to put in it, so I ended it there. I thought I post two chapters in one go, but I lost inspiration halfway through the second one. I hope you like where this fic is going— even if it's not much. 


	3. Chapter 2

**Author's Note**: Thank you all for reviewing. Loved everything you said.

**AbCarter**: You _bet_ I'm going to invent as many questions as possible to bug you with. :grins:

**L Zaza**, I'm really sorry, but the questions are going to take a while to get answers. Since the one-shot I originally posted was a glimpse of the future, it'll take me a while to build up to that point. But I'm definitely getting there.

* * *

**Chapter Two**

There was no more of that old thrill, little guy taking on the big, the sound of lazy, country music rolling in his ears. There was a spark of hope and a sliver of excitement, holding tightly to each other, trying not to get washed away by the wave of sadness at a terrible farewell.

He didn't have much in terms of luggage; only clothes, a few photographs pushed into a single album, a couple of books he didn't remember reading in the last two weeks, and superficial belongings he'd once treasured. They fit into the trunk of his Corvette, which was in a way sad to see how much had been left behind at Langley.

He didn't pack a gun. He didn't see the need to. Somewhere, deep inside, a voice in his head told him he was being crazy. But he _was_ crazy. He was crazy to leave the team, the others, like he did.

Sometimes being crazy helped. And when you thought of Murdock, it didn't help at all.

Fa— Templeton braked to a halt before a roadside diner. Being on the drive for half the day had exhausted him, and he staggered through the diner door, the tinkling of the little bell making his ears ring and echo.

A waitress collected his order as he sat in a window-side booth; his eyes closed tightly, not even bothering to look twice at the curvaceous, well-toned figure. His head, not just his ears anymore, were ringing, as he tried to work out what he was going to do. It struck him now that he'd never gone this far before.

He knew somewhere he could stay for now. In the heart of Langley, there was the house of Jason Bedford. He'd been a sort of client of the A-Team, though not technically, since that one had been a charity case. He'd apparently been killed on a mining job, but his sister, unattractive but lovely, had believed otherwise.

Even after the job was done, Bedford had been a personal friend. They went fishing and stayed in touch before the team returned to California, silence drawn tauter by miles, but not broken.

Fac— err, Templeton felt the corners of his mouth lift. He wanted to go back home to Los Angeles, but before he could do that, he needed somewhere to sit down and think. He hoped his welcome was not yet over.

When the waitress came back with his order, she certainly went back with eyebrows raised at the sudden goofy grin on the blond customer's face. And she was blushing from that "surreptitious" wink he shot her.

* * *

Jason Bedford was now thirty-two. He had no marriage but was vying towards one, and a sister who loved him very much. His house was brick, with white curtains, and painted a pretty picture amid relatively quiet streets.

No words, however, are adequate to describe his utter shock.

He stood in the doorway of his house, his hand pressed against the doorframe, the feel of wood pushing against the inside of his palm, keeping him tied to the ground.

"Jesus,"

Templeton smiled. It was broad and dazzling, with the tinge of uncertainty behind it. "Can I, err, come in?"

"Jason! Who's at the door?"

Bedford jerked. "Nan," he whispered. "What'll she do? What if she sees you?"

"Say hello?" Templeton shifted his weight uncomfortably, knowing the tight-lined tension between Bedford, his sister Nancy, Face, and unrequited feelings. "Listen to me, Jason, I need your help. I'm on the road for good, and I need someone's help ... You owe me, don't you?"

He felt awful saying it, watching it slip between his teeth. What kind of bastard was he to let _that_ out?

"Come in, then,"

Bedford's tone had turned bland and hollow, and Templeton stood bare-handed on the doorstep, feeling the guilt carve at him.

"Sorry," he said softly, turning away his head. "I — I'll be on my way, didn't mean to intrude." He stepped away from the door and headed back for the Corvette parked outside the fence.

He felt someone snatch up his wrist. He was reaching for the gate, when Bedford lunged at him. "Come in," he repeated, this time more heavily.

Templeton swallowed. Bedford wouldn't meet his eyes anymore, and started to walk back to the house, his broad shoulders squared, with the obvious indication that he wanted to be followed. He paused on the welcome mat, and turned around.

"If you do _any_thing to Nan that'll leave her in tears, I'm throwing you right back out, you hear?"

He disappeared inside, leaving the door open behind, the carpeted floor visible to passers-by. A slow, happy grin of relief and irrevocable gratitude broke over Templeton's gloom.

* * *

**Author's Note**: Aw, another short chapter? I seriously apologise on its behalf. I'm running out of ideas, and I don't like to leave readers hanging with "cliffhangers" for so long that ultimately they get bored and fall asleep. So there it went, and the next chapter won't take half as long, promise!


	4. Chapter 3

**Author's Note**: **AbCarter**, thank you. I genuinely am touched. Here's the next chapter on a silver platter.

But there is something I forgot to say. If you are looking for a fic that reads like an A-Team episode, complete and rounded with drama, action, romance, and humour— this really is the wrong place. This is Face's story, and it's written by an author seriously ticked off by the tearjerker of "_The Only Church In Town_." Their break-up was lousy and shoddy, but I'm going to take the route of "fix-it fanfiction" and draw up the poor guy's phantoms and give him and his ex-girlfriend a fresh shot.

Obviously, this emphasises Face's side of the story, so whatever we see of him in the episodes, will be the central vein here. And I think it will third-person-limited too; more appropriate that way.

* * *

**Chapter Three**

There was the pungent smell of cooking oil and sauce floored him almost as Templeton silently treaded down the stairs into the kitchen. Nancy Bedford had her back to him, an apron clumsily tied around her waist, as she hummed and flitted around, saucepans and a big frying man sizzling sharply, the chopping board covered in sliced vegetable pieces.

The aroma wafting through the open door, under the scent of ingredients, was beatific.

Nancy had always been a connoisseur and chef. And she also didn't know that he was here, but cooking anyway for her brother and his "mysterious guest."

Leaning lightly against the doorway, he watched her, and his eyes could have been half-closed because he'd never forget Nancy, like he'd never forget any other woman he once said he'd loved.

She had changed, of course; he knew for sure that she had, with her back turned to him, he would never tell.

Stepping inside, he walking until there was a yard separating them, and softly cleared his throat.

There was a small sound as she dropped the ladle into the frying pan, tucking the tea towel she was using on the window-sill. She probably thought it was Jason who wanted something, and wiping her hands on the apron, she turned.

It was evening, but the streetlights falling through the window fell around her, framing almost. Nancy didn't breathe, the astonishment strangled in her throat.

_Face Man_.

There was a heavy _thump_, a muffled grunt, and the two of them were on their backs, flat on the floor, Nancy's auburn head buried against the hollow of his throat. Her tears were falling and dampened her shirt, and Templeton couldn't speak, his arms around her, holding her, the cold, tiled kitchen floor pressing uncomfortably into his back.

* * *

Nancy had questions that wouldn't end. She let Templeton help with a dinner that he didn't know how to make, asking, "why, when, how, if," all at once. He handed her the chopping board and she swept its contents into the pan, while he prodded the simmering sauce, and she asked,

"Will you ever see the A-Team again?"

Templeton froze. Nancy moved, snatched up the salt cellar, and replaced it in seconds, and looked sideways at him, but this time, he held her gaze before she looked away to watch the pan.

"I don't know,"

"Why us?"

"Pardon?"

"Why stay with _us_? There must be plenty of other people, plenty of other places. Aren't you supposed to be the resourceful one? ... Why us?"

"I don't know," he said again.

She looked at him. Reaching over, she turned down the fire, tossed away the towel, and picked up one of his hands, her strong fingers rubbing the back of his.

"I don't," she said softly, "want you think that you aren't welcome here. You could stay as long as you like— Jason wants you to, I think."

Templeton pressed his lips, and as he tried to avert his gaze, Nancy shot out to cup his jawline with her other hand, gently turning him to look at her. He felt like a little child, but he didn't know why. Nancy had loved him. His guilt and her love hung in the air, percolating the kitchen smells.

She didn't know that he could never stay, that the military police wouldn't give him up. Yet illusions were priceless, and he would never break hers, like he might break her heart.

"Will you help me set the table?"

The moment had passed, and once more, she was that same Nancy Bedford who stormed into the Chinese laundry to find Hannibal Smith, screaming at "Mr. Lee" because she thought he was playing with time.

Templeton breathed a slow, half-ashamed sigh of relief.

* * *

It was quiet at dinner, sitting at the table, Jason's eyes darting between Templeton and his sister with deep-lined suspicion even as he tried to be jovial. Templeton didn't parry his attempts to lighten the air, but Nancy eyes belied her pensiveness too well.

He didn't wait long after dinner, standing up quietly and depositing his dishes in the sink under the running water, the Bedfords left in silence at the table behind him.

"Uh, I'll be hitting the sack now, if no one minds,"

There was a loud, scraping noise, and Nancy stood up too. "I'll show you to the guest room," she said. Templeton's duffel bag was on the living room carpet. Jason had told him to let it be, and now he picked it up again as he followed Nancy through the house.

She took him up the stairs, pausing outside a door on the second floor. "There," she said. "The bed's made, and it's neat and tidy. I think you'll like it."

Templeton could only nod. "Thanks," he said.

Nancy smiled. "Any time." She reached up on her toes, and kissed his cheek. "Sweet dreams, Templeton." Her dark hair flashing, she made her way back down to the kitchen.

He pushed open the door, and went in. She was right: it _was_ neat. More like an inn-room than a guest's bedroom. He dropped the bag on a nearby chair, and started to take off his shoes and change out of his clothes.

Mechanical. He didn't see, didn't watch what he did. He was reeling.

Even quarter-of-an-hour later, when he finally closed his eyes and tried to sleep, his mind was still asking: when would he leave?


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Note**: **shadowwalker213**, glad to have you onboard. Hope definitely to hear more on what you think.

**L Zaza**, I sincerely hope I shall not disappoint when it comes to that grand moment to tying the threads. The part about Leslie, yes, I seriously and fervently repeat that last sentence. Nancy, and subsequent OCs who shall be turning up, well, they're all very good to the plot, but a lot of them will be to show the transition in Face's life from one of the A-Team to a fellow on the lam.

**Hecate Triformis**, thank you for the compliment. Yes, my updating schedule is getting shoddy, but I dislike writer's block as much as it dislikes my writing— I've got the good parts written in snatches, but the "bad parts" are taking me forever. We _need_ Face-centric fanfic? By God! You don't think the large population of FacexMurdock (mostly trash, without the few gems of an exception, definitely) and what not other gay affairs is _enough_::grins::

**PS**. If anyone hasn't read it already, the callus problem has been resolved in a simple, non-violent, and amusing way; thank you to **IndeMaat** and the **Protectors of the A-Team**. If you want to see the callus removed, (even it's staying on in this story) I recommend Chapter Eight of the fic.

* * *

**Chapter Four**

"When was the last time you, me, and I went fishing?" he said in a funny voice.

Jason tilted his head, looking bemusedly at Templeton. The two men were standing on the end of the pier, lines of their fishing rods dipped in the slow river water. A bucket, flecked with water droplets stood near them, but it was empty.

"That's a funny question," he said.

Templeton shrugged. "Maybe. I was just thinking, that's all..."

"Highly uncharacteristic of the Face Man," observed Jason, and Templeton looked mock-miffed at him.

"Oh sure," he said sarcastically. "Face _never_ thinks. He _never_ thinks that Hannibal's too old to go in through the front door, when the bloody world agrees with him!"

"Aren't you boys interesting folk?"

A third voice surprised them, and they turned hastily, breaking off. Stepping on the pier, and advancing towards them was Nancy Bedford. Her hair blew freely in the wind since she'd washed it and it looked as silky and springy as it was, and she laughed as she came closer.

"I got bored alone at home," she confessed. "I came to see if you two wouldn't mind company."

"Not at all," said Templeton immediately. He cast a very pointed look at Jason who had said nothing, but was heavily glared at in return.

"You're my sister," he said. "Figure it out." Then he moved aside on the edge, and said, "Come on, come closer. The view's lovely."

She carefully made her way, walking deliberately next to Templeton and leaned forward, but not too much, and said directly to her brother, "Wow! You're right. The coast looks so far away, and those sea-gulls ... they look like they've been _painted_."

"Why don't you paint them?" he said quietly.

Nancy looked around at him. Templeton's clear, innocent blue eyes gazed back.

"I put away the canvases a long time ago. Now's too late to start again."

From behind, Jason too was staring incredulously at her. Templeton said, surprised, "But you could paint so well ... Why it give up?"

"I don't have anything to paint, that's all. It's not a big issue, so didn't get fooled by how my brother's probably staring at me with saucer-big eyes."

"Hey," said Jason, affronted. "That's only 'cause I saw you poking around the attic last week. That _is_ where you keep your paints."

"I was looking for some rubbish, _not my paints_, so don't get carried away and _don't_ give Templeton the wrong impression. I don't paint anymore."

There was something very defeatist about her manner that belied the casualness of her tone. Templeton caught Jason's eye when he said,

"Okay, why don't you and I set up an easel and canvas here this evening? The landscape is attractive, and you could call it _View From the Pier: Artist's Impression_, or something. Then I'll see if I can bring around a art dealer of sorts and make him tell you it's good ... I might have to con him a bit first, but that's your standard occupational hazard. What do you say?"

Nancy said nothing; she only gave her snort of laughter.

* * *

_You are just _brimming_ with evil_, thought Nancy savagely, as she tramped down the wooden planks after Templeton, and she told him as much.

"Excuse me, lady," he managed between gasps of breath, as he trudged with the weight of easel and a hardwood stand (while she merely carried a paper bag with a roll of canvas sticking out of it), "but are you really _supposed_ to be insulting the hired help? We have a union, you know ... Guild For Workers Slaving Under Pretty Women."

"Shut up," she said primly.

They set up the easel, and mounted the canvas, and since Nancy hadn't wanted to bring a stool along as well, she would stand with her palette and brushes.

It was a beautiful evening, the sun not yet set, still suspended above the sea, raking its waters with orange light beneath the lavender-red sky. Templeton perched at the end of the pier, crouched on his heels, one hand dipping down but too high to trail in the water.

He was determined to leave Nancy alone with this one. This was going to be her and her alone, and when she was done, he'd help back and shuttle her things back home. He watched the waves ripple, gently like the sea. Oh, it was a beautiful day, a beautiful evening. A beautiful girl, and a beautiful life.

He blinked, startled by the dampness in his eyes. He wiped away the tears with a knuckle, turning around to catch a precious glimpse of her.

She was turned away from him, her hands deftly sweeping the upper of the canvas, her gaze darting like a moth from the paint to the sky. He watched her, his head turned, like he was watching his life play in her adroit, artistic movements. There was beauty in that, he thought. Simple beauty. Simple things like love. Like comfort. Like Hannibal, like BA, like Murdock, so far away from him now.

His eyes were prickling again, and he turned away.

The brush went on painting. It had a life of its own, a self-willed duty to paint all that was left on earth. Nancy smiled, her head bowed over the easel, her shadow falling over the painting. _It had been certainly worth it, coming to the pier_. She didn't regret not picking up her palette again sooner.

* * *

"Uh, Jason, what's your policy with regard to long-distance calls?"

Jason Bedford halted on the foyer, the door still open. Templeton was standing by the lace-doily covered table under the stairs, his hand over the telephone. His eyes narrowed. "_How_ long exactly?"

"Err, just a bit off Langley. The phone there's kind of high security. That's the problem."

Jason nodded, leaning against the doorframe for a minute, not thinking of the cost. He'd feel like a cad if he didn't let Peck make this call.

"You sure? I could go to a pay phone, if you like."

"No, dammit. Just use mine."

Templeton offered a smile. "Thanks," he said, with that touch of sincerity that went straight to people's hearts. "I really appreciate this, Jason. You're a real friend."

"Hey. You saved my life, when I was trapped in a oil mine fifteen feet into the earth, remember?"

"That was Nancy's fault that we did."

Jason's lips grinned. It was roguish, half-jovial, half-unreadable. "Then, let's just say I'm doing _this_ for her sake, too." He pushed away from the door, closing it behind him, and strolled into the house.

The dial tone sounded loud and irritating as it emanated from the telephone receiver against Templeton's ear. _Pick up_, he thought. _Don't pick up_. Finally, someone lifted the phone on the other line.

A burst of static, silence, and he knew the security mechanism was doing its checks. For a reckless moment, he didn't care if Stockwell knew it was him, even if it was unlikely. This was why it was safer to use Jason's number than a pay phone. No one knew in black and white that they had helped the Bedfords— and pay phones were suspicious.

"Hello?" It was Hannibal's voice. The blood roared in his ears.

"H-hello?" His own voice deepened, and it acquired the faint trace of an old Pennsylvanian accent that Jason had. "Smith?"

"Jason Bedford? That you, Kid?" The way he spoke, sounded like he was smoking one of his cigars.

He swallowed. "Yeah, Smith, it's me. The others there?"

"Uh, lemme check." A hand muffling the mouthpiece, a yell in the background. Hannibal came back on. "Yeah, go on. There's three of us, here."

"Murdock? BA?" His voice burst out louder, like he was put on speaker. "It's ... me."

"Yeah, we hear ya loud and clear, Roger."

"His name's _Jason_, fool." Templeton grinned. The unnecessary emphasis BA put when articulating that particular epithet was so familiar all of a sudden. "Hey, how's Nancy?"

"As pretty as ever."

"You doin' okay, Jason?"

"Yeah, peachy, Murdock." That note of anxiety was touching. "Uh, I'm planning a vacation, actually. Do you guys want to come? It's going to be a good party: all sun, only picnic."

Hannibal said, his voice casual, but Templeton had sensed the uneasy glances they must be exchanging, "Maybe another time, Kid. We're a little busy this time of year."

"Oh, okay." So wasn't safe, after all, to tell them where he was moving to. "You could drop by to visit me anytime, you know. I've still got the flat in the city."

"Tempting offer, Bedford."

And now the last act of their play. "Uh, where's Face? Nancy might like to have a word."

"He's indisposed, Jason, sorry. He's not with us right now."

"Miss him the hell of a lot, though." Murdock again.

"_Okay_. So, guess I'll hang up now? Wasn't much of a reason why I called. Just to hear your voices, I guess. This is goodbye for now then?"

The reluctant farewell echoed from the other line.

"You take care of yerself, now, got that?" The last word of caution from BA, and then, there was a click. The line went dead.

* * *

After dinner, Jason, on request, brought out the rolls of cross-country maps lying about in his attic. He spread them over the kitchen table, and put his half-emptied coffee mug over one end to prevent the map from rolling in on its self. With a red felt-tip pen, he quickly circled Langley, and then, did a large accusing circle around Los Angeles.

On the other coast.

"You're crazy," he pronounced.

Templeton shrugged. "So, it's a long walk. Accepted. But no one knows me anywhere else."

"That's the point. The MPs will have a harder time finding you anywhere else. You go back there— you walk into their arms." He didn't know there was the Stockwell Factor, ready to hunt the Face Man down, but the Face Man, even if he didn't exist anymore, knew quite well.

"LA's still home."

Jason glared. "So are the caves, by that logic ... Jesus! When were you last in Los Angeles? _Five_ years ago?"

"If Lieutenant Decker is still after us, then MPs are not really a problem," he reasoned. "I mean, I know you haven't met Decker, but the guy hasn't received a promotion since the Vietnam War. Shouldn't that say something to you?"

Unconvinced was the expression when Jason growled in his throat. He didn't like Templeton's stubbornness, but it wasn't his choice to make, and it wasn't his life. He knew Templeton was as aware — maybe more? — of the risk being calculated over the dinner table.

Unwillingly, he gave in, and the two men pored over the maps, trying to work out the route Templeton would be taking as he crossed the whole of the United States of America to reach California— his "home."

* * *

A light tap on the door made Templeton immediately sit up. The fluorescent tube-lights were switched on, and he was making a half-hearted attempt with a J. D. Salinger book he didn't know what to make of, and he couldn't sleep. He padded to the door, and swung it open, knowing beforehand, that it was—

"You're awake?"

"Hi, Nancy."

"Hi." She was holding something big behind her back, and she edged into his room when he invited her in, shielding it from him. Smiling at the mysterious air, he took in the sight of her— hair wrapped in a scarf with dark tendrils escaping, a half-worn apron over her jeans and blouse, and a smatter of colour on her cheek. _She'd been painting_.

She confessed the moment she was accused, looking shy as she stood in his room with her bare feet. "I-I wanted to show it you."

"I'd love to see it!"

She put it face-down on the bed, and Templeton appeared above her shoulder. "Can I turn it around?" he asked, eagerness laid bare in his voice like the little boy celebrating his first Christmas at the orphanage, unsure if he was going to be getting any presents.

He reached out, when she nodded hesitantly, and he gingerly flipped it over on the bed. He froze.

There was only a face, and little else. A human face against a sunset-coloured backdrop, a little shakily done. A man's face. Smooth skin with faint creases from laughter, tanning with the sun. A contemplative mouth. A child's blue eyes. Captured in a moment of vulnerability, with all the emotions laid bare.

He could picture this face as a man's face. A man by the pier, watching the sunset, turning around when he thought the artist wasn't looking. But she had been looking.

Nancy always had.


End file.
